contour
Learn more about other poetry terms
I drift through an endless space, reacquainting myself again
With the parallel black lines
Stacked on top of each other with infallible precision
In a backdrop of a cream filling, rich as buttercream topping on a cake
My face is not my canvas
I can contour
I can paint
I can outline
I can manipulate
I Cannot tell a story
I Cannot move others emotionally
I Cannot be studied
My real canvas